


Do You Hate Me?

by dan_vs92



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, Hickeys, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dan_vs92/pseuds/dan_vs92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill will do anything to get a rise out of Fiddleford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Hate Me?

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't mine, this is my dear friend Llamanee-sama's first fanfic.   
> Go read this on her tumblr page: http://llamanee-sama.tumblr.com/post/142109201629/do-you-hate-me. Be warned before exploring her blog, its NSFW.

“Why do you hate me, Fidds?”

Don’t engage. Don’t even acknowledge him.

Fiddleford continued to diligently work on his equations, trying his best to ignore the ever-looming presence of the man behind him. He was using Ford’s voice again. Lately, he’d even gotten better at mimicking his mannerisms and speech patterns. He’d be completely indistinguishable from Stanford if not for those damned eyes. All of it made his stomach turn.

Every single inch of his being just wanted to tell Bill to get lost, but he thought better of it. He was only trying to get a rise out of him, acknowledging him and saying something would only be giving the demon exactly what he wanted.

“It’s not like I’m any worse to you than Sixer is.”

Fiddleford reflexively let out a snort at the statement. He’d be mad if what he was spewing from his mouth wasn’t complete hogwash.

There it was. The reaction Bill was waiting for.

He sneered as he inched closer to him, Fiddleford’s back still turned to him. “I mean, is anything I do to you really any worse than how Stanford treats you? And yet you think I’m the bad guy while you follow him around like some sad little puppy dog, lapping up his—”

Fiddleford sharply turned his heels, only to be taken aback to see how close Bill was to him. Too close. Uncomfortably, suffocatingly close. He didn’t even hear him walk up behind him. He looked up at his glowing, cat-like eyes and shrank away from him. Despite how similar the two men were in height, Ford always felt so much bigger than him whenever Bill possessed him. Or maybe it was just that he made Fiddleford feel so small.

He recomposed himself and gave his best effort to glare into his eyes. Those same inhuman eyes he felt watching him, even when he thought he was completely alone. Bill was the first to break contact, searching Fiddleford down before fixating on the patches of bruises peeking out from underneath his shirt collar.

His voiced softened, hovering a hand near the man’s face. “Why do you let him hurt you?”

He lightly traced his six fingers down the tender skin of Fiddleford’s neck, sending shots of electricity down to his spine at the familiar, yet uncomfortable, sensation. He clasped a hand over the spot in an effort to cease the prickling feeling that still lingered, as if to prevent any more unwanted contact.

A wry smile formed on Fiddleford’s lips. “That’s the best you got? You think he hurt me? I don’t know what point you’re tryin’ to get at Cipher, but whatever you’re planning’, it ain’t gonna work on me.”

Maybe it was the adrenaline rushing through his veins over one-upping Bill, but Fiddleford thought his neck still felt warm and raw, as it did when Stanford gave him those hickeys the night before. As much as he thought it made him come off like a horny schoolboy, Fiddleford wore those marks like badges of pride. As crude as they were they were an obvious, physical sign of Stanford’s love for him. He wasn’t exactly going to parade them around town but he was much more lax around the house, never completely buttoning up his shirt unless there was work to be done. Those marks of love and passion were meant for him and Stanford alone, but there was always some subconscious desire of his to have Bill catch them, a completely wordless, smug way for him to rub in how important he was to Ford in his big ugly eye… no, that wasn’t Fiddleford. Or at least, that’s not how he wanted to admit he felt.

Bill smiled wider, bearing his teeth, looking less like a normal human being that found the perfect hole in his opponent’s argument to win a debate and more like a carnivorous beast that just caught his prey.

“Oh no, I wasn’t referring to that. I mean, honestly Fiddlesticks, how deep in denial are you?” His voice resumed its usual obnoxiously mocking tone, except he still had Stanford’s voice, irritating Fiddleford further. “Did you already forget about the Gremloblin? You told him to leave it be, but did he listen? You had nightmares for weeks after that little incident! Or how about the time he decided to play necromancer and reanimate the dead? You almost became undead yourself! Now, if I recall,” Bill pondered, taking on an exaggerated “thinking” pose, “didn’t you tell him what a bad idea that was? Well, you sure were right about that! Or how about…”

Fiddleford’s self-assured smile slowly dissipated with each listing of Stanford’s transgressions, and one by one his fingers left their spot from the crook of his neck. “Those… those were accidents… He’d never…” 

Every single incident where he was put in danger on Stanford’s watch, or as an indirect result to one of his studies or experiments, flashed through his mind. Not even he could believe the half-formed thoughts that he tried to force out of his mouth, focusing on the ground as he tried and failed to think up any possible counters to the demon’s claims.

That’s when Bill found his chance to strike.

He closed the gap between the two, pinning both of Fiddleford’s wrists to the wall.

“Wh-what are you d-doin’!?” he yelled out between panicked breaths, struggling against the vice grip Bill had on him. “Get offa me! L-let me go!”

A wide smile formed on Ford’s face, a smile that seemed too wide to be humanly possible. “You really think I wouldn’t hurt you, Fiddleford? You’re so naïve, it’s almost sad,” he said, taking on the same pleasant tone Stanford always used on him.

His best efforts to struggle did nothing to lessen the hold Ford’s hands had on him. “Puh-please, j-just let me go,” he choked out through suppressed sobs and misty eyes. Bill ignored his pleas as he took both his wrists in one hand and pinned them over his head, slowly inching the other one toward Fiddleford’s throat.

“STOP IT STANFORD!”

Dead silence. No sound entered or escaped the room as Fiddleford’s words were left hanging in the air. It was as if time stopped and everything went still.

Bill’s smile softened as he slowly backed off, releasing his hold on Fiddleford. With no more support holding him to the wall, he collapsed to the ground, shaken. Without a single word, Bill casually walked off and headed for the door.

“W-wait…no, I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” Fiddleford tried to respond, fingers touching trembling lips. His feeble attempts to speak went unacknowledged by Bill, leaving the room and leaving Fiddleford utterly alone.

After the click of the door shutting, all Fiddleford heard was his laugh, but not the warm, deep, jovial laugh of Stanford Pines, but instead the horrible, piercing laugh of Bill Cipher.


End file.
